Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Holiday vacations for Cross Country skiers in winter and hikers- cyclists in summer. We've arrived via Amtrak, whose Essex, Montana, station is a quarter mile from the lodge. Come on along and join in the holiday cheer. We'll be back in Nordacotah 29 December. In the meantime, we will meet you on the ski runs!!

Monday, December 22, 2014

Today
is the shortest day of the year, so it should follow that mornings will
start getting brighter from now on, shouldn't it? Not necessarily,
writes Kris Griffiths.

This Sunday, 21 December, the northern hemisphere will
experience the shortest day of its year, marked at 23:03 GMT by an
astronomical phenomenon known as the winter solstice - the moment the
North Pole is tilted furthest from the sun as the Earth continues on its
orbit.The solstice doesn't always occur on 21 December. Sometimes
it nudges into the early hours of 22 December, which will happen again
next year. The hour of day also varies. Last year's arrived at 17:11.
Next year's will at 04:38.Whatever day or time it happens, for many commuters it means
leaving the house and returning from work in darkness, in the knowledge
that from here on in the long nights will get shorter, with the sun
rising earlier and setting later as we journey again towards the spring
equinox.However, the more astute of these early risers might have
perceived a curious development, which may have passed by the more
bleary-eyed unnoticed.It would seem logical that after the shortest day has elapsed
the mornings would start getting lighter earlier, but this isn't what
happens - the mornings continue darkening until early in the new year.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Friday, December 19, 2014

We turned the corner drawn by the yeasty smell of baking bread. Stepping into the shop
cluttered with ovens and flour covered counter tops, I headed for the oak-planked service area
where small candies, fudge brownies, and oatmeal cookies surrounded the register.
“May I help you?” asked the tiny clerk whose kerchief covered head barely rose above the

goodies.

“Small latte, and please don’t make the milk too hot. What do you want, Merrie?”

“Yeah, right. Always waiting for some fellow who loves the wilderness as much as I do. I’m
such an introvert. I don’t meet new people very well. Not like you, people collector.”

“You flatter me,” Merrie allowed. “How can you claim to be an introvert? A hundred and
fifty teenagers a day pass through your classroom.”

“Pass through, now that’s the truth. Some of them leave their brains elsewhere, but their
bodies certainly fill the desks. Nonetheless, they all come into the classroom where I set the
agenda. Kind of an introvert's version of social nirvana.”
“Control freak, more like it. Introvert. I wonder?” Merrie tagged the screen door with her
toe, pushed it open with her shoulder and headed outside.
Distracted by Merrie’s very accurate description of my personality, on our way to our table
on the boulevard, I sloshed a too full cup of coffee and stooped to wipe the shop floor where
impatient carelessness left a creamy brown puddle.
Rising with a wet napkin in hand, I commented, “By the way, saving money is what the
L.A. and New York Times travel sections are about. I hunt for bucket seats, left over reservations
big travel companies buy from airlines at the last minute. I can buy a ticket from L.A. to London
for $300, but it's non transferable and non refundable. Could we plan to be finished in the Sierra
before July 4th?" Sierra Sunrise: A Travel Adventure

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Do
you have a memory of a precious child hood possession? Certainly I do.

The affluence of the family in which any of
us was raised, the time we had to enjoy or despair of our parents’ involvement
with us, where we lived, and how large or small a family raised us often impact
our memories of precious childhood possessions.

However, one item swirls into memory as my
most important when I was eleven years old. A pale-green cotton squaw skirt
made by my mom for me signaled my first step into what this sixth grader
considered high fashion.

We were poor. My dad was then a first-sergeant
in the Michigan Air National Guard that had been nationalized as a result of
the Korean War.You know about that
stuff? Similar to the National Guard troops nationalized and sent to Iraq and
Afghanistan today. Same deal only in
1951.There was this war going on
between North and South Korea.Nothing
to do with us in America except one of those countries was communist and
supported by their northern neighbor, China, and one of those countries was
capitalist and supported by guess who? Yup..USA.World politics via the United Nations encouraged folks to take sides and
go to war to defend the economic system of their choice. Europe and the U.S.A. were concerned that
China was about to overtake evenmore
acreage in eastern Asia than they already governed. Capitalists didn’t much
like that idea.

So, we, my family, were moved from our home
in Michigan where we froze in the winter and sweltered in the summer, where
snow mobiles had not yet been invented, but sleds worked really well on the low
hills of our neighborhood. We were sent to Glendale, Arizona, just a few miles
north of Phoenix, which in 1951 was a po-dunk town in where the rodeo was the
best show in town. As an eleven year old, I loved it.

I started reading westerns at age eight. My
favorite author was Zane Gray who wrote novels like Riders of the Purple Sage.I
didn’t know what sage was, but I loved the lonely heroes who saved the girl or
defended hard working ranchers from outlaws, where sheep herders and cattle wranglers
were bigger than life. I loved the hole in the wall gang and all of their
kindred.As they rode into the sunset, my
imagination carried me across open spaces. In the midst of these stories I
forgot which younger sibling I was supposed to watch or which dishes needed
washing. When old man winter frost-bit my fingertips while I hung washing on the
line or carried frozen clothes inside the house, I imagined I was rescuing
yearling cattle from fingers of frozen snow near Flagstaff.

Moving to Arizona changed all of that, ‘cause
there I no longer had to hang out clothes in winter storms. Phoenix may have
had temperatures in the 40s at night, but the sunlit skies were warm enough
that sheets dried long before sunset.

Mother worked early in the day.She was a pretty good grape packer at the
railroad.All those desert grapes had to
be hand packed before they were shipped to northern markets. Paid by the packing
box filled and loaded, she claimed what she called ‘decent money’.However, we lived pretty close to the bone in
those days.There was no extra money
although gasoline was less than eighteen cents a gallon and we already owned
our own car, a dandy, huge Nash on whose back floor my little sister and I would
lie side by side and squeal with delight whenever mom drove over a dip in the
road.Our tummies floated for a
moment.It was the most fun of the day.

All that changed the day mom called me into
her bedroom where she kept her Singer sewing machine.She was in the midst of gathering up three
rows of fabric to attach to a waist-band, creating my first squaw skirt.The fabric was dyed mesquite green. I loved
this skirt.As I walked in it, I could
kick the bottom fringe up in the air.It
was such fun.The hem didn’t quite touch
the ground, but close enough so that my black patent leather shoes would push
it in a puff forward with each step without catching me and causing me to
trip.There was a blouse to go with it
with short sleeves and an elasticized scoop neck.It tucked into the waist-band showing off my
very slender tomboy self.

When I wore it to school the first time, I
told my classmates, “We visited the reservation, the one down by the River
yesterday, and my mom bought me this skirt.The Pima Indian woman who sold it to us said she had sewed it all by
hand.”

“Sure she did.Looks like an old sheet to me. She probably
stole it from some ladies clothesline and ripped it up into layers and pinned
it together.

“Indians don’t sell clothes. You’re lying.”

Despite my lies and the attitude of the
other students, I could have worn that outfit every day of my life and been
happy. I didn’t need any of the other clothes I owned, not that there were
many.

Naturally, the skirt of a thousand gathers
is the one I chose to wear to the spring concert at school that year. We were
to sing Arizona cowboy songs while Ms. George, the second grade teacher
accompanied the choir on piano.It
didn’t take the teachers long to discover, however, that I couldn’t carry a
tune, but that didn’t hinder the loudness of my contributions to the choir. After
all I was the eldest child in my family and was accustomed to being heard.The teacher in the classroom always waited a
bit to call on me.I suspect it was because
my answer woke the whole class, so she waited for some of the slackers to
almost fall asleep and then call on me. My mid-western ‘warsh’ startled them
all awake. I’m not subtle, especially with the cowboy songs like “Home on the
Range”.

“Trudy, would you step over here for a
moment?” directed my teacher, Ms Ambrose.I have a special job for you for next week’s presentation.Ms. George cannot play and turn the pages at
the same time. Would you like to sit here next to her and when she comes to the
end of a page in the music, turn the page.You may need to stand up to reach the top of the page.

I was thrilled.I did want to sing with my classmates. But to
be singled out and given this important job made my heart sing.I could still mime the lyrics under my breath
and I could read them on the page of the music so I would know when Ms. George
needed the page turned. And if I wore my green squaw dress, everyone would see
it because no other students would be standing in front of me.It was almost like being asked to sing a
solo. I was in heaven.

The concert went off without a flaw, almost.My dad managed too make a scene, but no one
knew he was my dad cause he had never come to any other presentation at school
before.

It was then I learned where my loud voice
came from. He came in a bit drunk and as he entered the auditorium, I could
hear him say, “where’s my kid? I came to see my kid, how come she isn’t on the
stage?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw mother
tug on his arm from where she was sitting.Always a wise woman, she chose a seat closest to the door knowing he
might come in and wanting to stop any scene he might create. “She’s on the
piano bench, dear.See her there in her
green squaw dress.”

I heard mother.I didn’t turn to see ‘cause I had to keep my
eye on turning the page for Ms. George, but I heard and I knew everyone knew it
was me who was responsible for turning the pages correctly.I had to do it right.No hitches.I was so proud of my dress and of my black patent leather shoes and my braids.

Mother had braided my hair in the French
style.I knew I looked pretty. And I
paid attention to my job.No foul ups
here.

When the concert came to a finish and Ms.
Ambrose turned and pointed her baton at the choir so they could take a bow, I
was proud of them.We had done a good job.I loved the music.But, then I was surprised because she turned
to Ms. George, who pushed the piano bench back just a tad, took my hand and both
of us stood and bowed while holding hands.The hem of the green squaw dress touched the floor as I bowed. I was so
proud.I loved that skirt.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Do
you have a memory of a precious child hood possession? Certainly I do.

Mostly those possessions were books.Forever Amber by Kathleen Windsor was
the first and only important because mother took it away and punished me for
reading it.What a marvelous heroine
Amber was.She gave me hope that someday
I, too, could stand alone, could be recognized for my witty, charming,
beautiful demeanor.

The summer after seventh grade, I slept on
the front veranda daybed.In mid
Michigan, the sun rose at 4:30 a.m. I reached under my little bed to pull out
an adventure. For days, I read until 6:30 when the house echoed the sounds of
pop’s first cup of coffee, of teeth brushing and little brothers and sisters
looking for diaper changes and hugs.

On the morning in 1953 when I was caught in flagrante delicto, I was so immersed
in 17th century court life that I didn’t hear mother step out onto
my screened-in veranda.She reached for
the book, turned and with a horrified tone demanded to know where I had found
this piece of trash.

Suddenly the horror was mine.Caught! Caught doing what I most enjoyed in
the entire world – reading.

Sure mother would not have thrown out a
book, I searched the house every time I was home alone for the next three weeks
and finally found the book tucked into the bathroom towels on the very top
shelf way in the back.I exchanged the
book jacket with one from another book of a similar size, tucked the substitute
back into the closet and crept away to hide my precious childhood possession in
a spot where mother would never think to look. Early morning reading was done
thenceforth with one ear open. I read and re-read.Surely there must have been something
terrible I had somehow missed else why would I be kept from reading.I never found the offending language, scenes,
or philosophical moments.It still
stands as one of my favorite books of all time.And, it’s now available for all of you who just love period romance and
adventure on Amazon.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Lady Mary is one of those intrepid travelers whose primary motivating force is her curiosity. Her letters are written to close friends and therefore any diplomatic assignations are missing. Instead, Lady Mary, traveling from London to Constantinople in 1717 offers us an honest and often humorous view of the courts of several European countries as well as her heartfelt appreciation for the Muslim women she encounters in Constantinople. Her position as the wife of the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire gives her the opportunity to see not only the hovels of the poor as she passes by, but also the privileges of the ruling classes. Her judgments are visceral. Her willingness to meet the culture of the mid east with an open mind presents a view which is absolutely the opposite of what her male counterparts sent back to London. I love this woman. I love her letters. I love traveling with her. You will, too.

Try Lady Mary's commentary. I promise surprises, laughter, an occasional giggle and at the very least a sense of what it means to travel without insisting that the world be a mirror of the home country.

Lady Mary is my favorite travel writer. However can that be? I am a modern woman who follows the travel adventurers of women like Robyn Davidson, whose first travel book, Tracks, is today an excellent little Aussie film. I also love Kira Salak's discovery of her own limits in Four Corners, a trek through the highlands of Papua New Guinea.

However, Lady Mary's sense of humor, somewhat reminiscent of another intrepid British traveling woman, Mary Kingsley in Travels in West Africa, is what captures this reader as one surreptitiously follows the uneven tracks that some call roads and looks forward to doors opening upon scenes that only women can see since foreign men are not allowed in the soiree of The Otttoman Empire.

If you are looking for a thoroughly modern and always entertaining set of judgments about the courts of seventeenth century Europe and Eurasia, spend a few moments with Lady Mary Wortley Montague and like her once dear friend, Alexander Pope, you will be entertained.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

"Memory here is not a faded photograph but a library in disarray."

http://laphamsquarterly.org/time/reelin-years

An interesting read. With only nine more days til the shortest/longest day of the year at hand, I am remembered that time is kairos far more often than it is chronus. If you, too, suffer from this realization, you may wish to check out Dickey's article.

Friday, December 12, 2014

That's why these eight things about men over 50 are tips you can use
right away in your dating life. These tips have made a huge difference
in my both my life and the lives of my coaching clients.

1. Appreciate a man for who he is.

Men are wonderful but they aren't women. They don't think like women nor
do they communicate like women. So don't expect a man to act like a
woman or you're guaranteed to be disappointed.

2. Men over 50 are very masculine and they love when you bring this trait out in them.

Men have no interest in competing with you and that's exactly what they
see it as when you approach them as an Alpha Female. For a man, this is
like dating another man and he isn't interested in dating men. The key
is learning to come into your true feminine power ... one that
compliments a man's masculine power. When you do, he'll jump through
hoops to make you happy.

3. Men show you love with their actions.

Hollywood has messed with our heads on this one. On the big screen, they show us men like Tom Cruise's character in the movie, Jerry McGuire. Think back to when he professed his love with the romantic words, "You complete me."
Real
men show you their love by cutting your grass and giving you their
coats when you're cold. If you expect love to come in words ... you
could be waiting a very long time.

4. Men want to give to you.

Let them open the door for you or change that light bulb you can't
reach. It makes them happy to please you. All they want in return is to
be appreciated and thanked. If you do this, they'll do anything you
want, which leads us to number five.

5. Don't criticize the job a man is doing for you.

He's doing his best and, yes, you may be able to do it better or faster
than he can but don't. It makes him feel emasculated. If he has offered
to do something for you, allow him to do it his way. Otherwise, the next
time you ask for help, he'll tell you to hire a handyman. He doesn't
want the aggravation of not being able to do anything right for you.

6. When you're dating a man over 50, don't place demands on how he must be or what he has to do in order to date you.

Men tell me again and again how much they dislike profiles of women who
demand nothing less than the best restaurants or certain salaries to
date them. Men have had enough demands put on them at work and from
their ex's. The last thing they want to do is meet yours before you've
even met.

7. Don't try and remodel a man by making him your pet project.

Either accept him for who he is or let him go and move on.

8. A lot of men over 50 are pretty insecure when it comes to asking you out.

Having been rejected time and time again by so many women, they aren't
too quick about putting themselves back in a vulnerable position unless
it feels safe to do so.
If you like a man, encourage him with eye contact, a warm smile or a flirt online to let him know you're interested.
Remember,
men weren't given a Dating Rulebook with their divorce papers either.
So be kind to them and understand that as scared as you feel about
dating, most of them are too. Lisa Copeland is the
best-selling author and dating coach who makes finding a great guy fun
and easier after 50. Find out the 5 Little Known Secrets To Finding A
Quality Man at www.FindAQualityMan.com. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-copeland/what-women-should-know-about-men_b_6295122.html

Sunday, December 07, 2014

They
used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a
pot & then once a day it was taken & Sold to the
tannery.......if you had to do this to survive you were "Piss Poor"

But worse than that were the really poor folk who couldn't even afford
to buy a pot......they "didn't have a pot to piss in" & were the
lowest of the low The next time you are washing your hands and
complain because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think
about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the 1500s:
Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in
May, and they still smelled pretty good by June.. However, since they
were starting to smell . ...... . Brides carried a bouquet of flowers to
hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when
getting Married. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot
water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water,
then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the
children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you
could actually lose someone in it.. Hence the saying, "Don't throw the
baby out with the Bath water!" Houses had thatched roofs-thick
straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for
animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice,
bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes
the animals would slip and fall off the roof... Hence the saying "It's
raining cats and dogs." There was nothing to stop things from
falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where
bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed
with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection.
That's how canopy beds came into existence. The floor was dirt.
Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, "Dirt
poor." The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the
winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep
their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when
you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of
wood was placed in the entrance-way. Hence: a thresh hold. In
those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always
hung over the fire.. Every day they lit the fire and added things to
the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They
would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold
overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in
it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme: Peas porridge
hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.
Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special.
When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It
was a sign of wealth that a man could, "bring home the bacon." They
would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and
chew the fat. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food
with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food,
causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so
for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.
Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of
the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the
upper crust. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The
combination would Sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days.
Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare
them for burial.. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple
of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait
and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake.
England is old and small and the local folks started running out of
places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the
bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these
coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the
inside and they realized they had been burying people alive... So they
would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the
coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would
have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift.) to
listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was
considered a dead ringer. And that's the truth....Now, whoever said History was boring?

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

"Although
world events outside my control established safe havens for me from my youngest
years, home has always been where ever I lay my head at night. I celebrated my first birthday as Japan threatened the west coast of America. Mother placed me in foster care
shortly after. At the end of the War, I returned to my parents' home.

By
the time I entered second grade I was again dislocated. Mother
sent me to live with the family of her older brother. Cousins grudgingly shared
their bedroom until I convinced a compassionate second grade teacher to
talk with the adults in my family about how miserable I was. Can you imagine a
seven year old wanting to go home so badly that she convinced an outsider to
reach out to her uncle who consequently insisted that she be returned to her
parents' home?

The
Korean conflagration caused my family to relocate from Michigan to Arizona near
my eleventh birthday. Just after the celebration of my fourteenth, the two
halves of Korean agreed on a demarcation line. My family of five tumbled into
our old Nash and followed U.S. Route 66 back to Chicago and from there to the eastern
shores ofLake Michigan.Some semblance of consistency prevailed for
the following four years.

Nonetheless,
at age twenty, completing university, I fled to the desert communities of
southern California in order to escape. Heeding the
admonition Go West, Young Woman, Go West,
I am about to continue another 7500 miles in that direction in search of a safe
continent on which to protect my inner child, the Persephone who had yet to
come to terms with early years of abandonment in the underground."